Fall Away
by kalabangsilver
Summary: Harry visits Ruth after the Albany fiasco. Set immediately post-9. H/R, rated M.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N - Hello. Much as I enjoyed the latest season of Spooks, I, like many Harry/Ruth fans, have decided to ignore it for the purposes of fanfiction. So, this fic is set (more or less immediately) after season 9._

_The chapters are set out in a 'present' and 'earlier that night' alternating scenario. Seeing as you've managed to log onto a computer, navigate to fanfiction,net and open this fic, I'm sure you have the brainpower to figure it out, so I won't bother explaining it any further. But, j__ust a warning, there is a good reason for the M rating, especially in later chapters, so if you are offended by spies having sex, please turn away now. Anyway, thanks for reading and Happy Holidays to you all. _

_Silver. _

_._

**_Fall away_**

.

Lying with his back to the fire and his belly against her back, Harry thinks he might have reached a new level of contentment. Nothing else seems to matter, just the immediate; her shallow breaths, her burning skin and her back, damp against his. He breathes her in and his heart rate begins to return to normal. The heat is slowly leaving his body. He knows that, in a few minutes, it will start to grow cold and they will have to seek shelter. But a few minutes seem a long time away, right now.

They are still coupled together, his body oversensitive from the contact, still tingling from the electricity they had created between them. And it was electric; he is surprised by how naturally they worked together, especially when everything else about them is fumbling and awkward. Okay, admittedly, there had been a little fumbling and – though they started with some degree of finesse – it did devolve into a mad scramble towards the end, but the result had been exceptional. Hearts thundering, both panting wildly, they had managed to climax within seconds of one another, (more out of desperation than skill, but exceptional all the same).

Now they lie, recovering, on her living room floor. Her gas fire flickers merrily in the grate, a few feet away. It feels good, warm. They lie for a good few minutes before either of them moves. As usual, it is her who takes the step, arching her back against him, muscles contracting along the part of him still sheathed inside her. Something deep in his belly spasms. He gives a muffled groan.

She stills.

"You okay?" Her voice is a little huskier than normal, a little breathless.

"Very." His is probably no better.

After one last nudge into her, he pulls away. She stiffens against the cold but, to his surprise and tremendous delight, does not move away. Instead, she rolls back until she is flush against him. Their bodies, where they had been joined, are slick with moisture and she streaks her back with it. He smothers a laugh. She does the same, but does not move. He is glad of that. She is warm and the room around them is cold. Besides, moving is not really an option for him, at the moment. His muscles feel like water. Every inch of him just wants to lie here forever.

Her small fingers find his and slide between them.

"That was not taking things slow," she informs him, as casually as if they were back at the office and she was commenting on a status report.

He laughs, softly.

They lie together for a minute or two before the cold starts to sink in. Then, unlinking their hands, she rolls over and drags a blanket down from over the couch. The muscles dance in her back, as she stretches, her skin almost golden in the half-light. She is incredibly beautiful, but he holds himself back from telling her. She might spook, she might run, so he watches, instead. The lines of her back shift and she grabs the blanket, pulling it down over them. It smells of fabric conditioner, oranges and her perfume. He surreptitiously sniffs it as they arrange themselves underneath, trying to coordinate their tired, satisfied limbs.

Once they were covered, she turns to face him.

"I didn't mean to do this." She tells him softly.

It is not said in regret or anger, she just likes to analyse a situation. It is what makes her good at her job and what makes her Ruth. Harry does not mind, but cannot resist a little tease.

"Do what? Get me drunk and seduce me, on front of a fire?"

"No!" her cheeks redden immediately. "I mean, yes, I mean... I didn't..." she winces and starts again, slower this time. "When I let you in, tonight, I didn't have any of this in mind."

A chuckle from him.

"I know."

If Ruth had planned any of this, it would never have happened so organically, so naturally.

He squeezes her hand.

"Neither did I. Honestly, I just wanted to talk."

They lie for another while, him exploring the lines of her hand with his own. He has craved this contact for so long. Both of them have – they have watched and imagined how each part of one another feel so often that it is surreal to be touching now. At the back of his mind, however, Harry is aware that their sanctuary is temporary. Soon his actions will drag them back into the real world. It is half past five in the morning and soon his phone will start to ring.

He has a lot to answer for. Albany is a stain on his record that even the Home Secretary cannot wash out. On the phone, Towers had told him to 'start preparing for life after MI5'. This is not going to be an easy storm to weather. The powers that be are incensed by his conduct and he will be punished. There will be no public spread in the newspapers, no trial that brings disgrace on the Service. He will be asked to leave quietly, by the back door. Ritual humiliation and a quiet stripping of rank and dignity; the MI5 way.

The process will be particularly unpleasant for Ruth. Whether or not she instigated the situation, she is the reason he handed State Secrets over, to a rogue officer. She will be picked apart, before a tribunal. Her every moment with him will be analysed.

In a meagre attempt at defending her, Harry has spent the evening preparing a dossier outlining her value as an asset to State Security. He only hopes that Ruth's brilliance will, once more, be their saving grace. If he can convince the tribunal panel that Ruth was worth more to the Service than Albany, then he can justify his actions. Or, at least, he can justify keeping Ruth. He no longer really cares if he makes it through. He realised that as he sat in the confinement of his office, typing up the report. It is his turn to take one for the team.

Ruth will not see it that way, of course. She will be blaming herself, even now. That is the reason he came here, tonight. He wanted to tell her that this was his mess and not hers, wanted to tell her that he would clean it up. And, yes, maybe, at the back of his mind, he was thinking that maybe now – now that he had shown her how much he valued her, now that he was leaving MI5 – they could try and be together. He wanted another chance. He wanted it desperately.

Harry sighs. Today has been a confusing string of events - some he had been prepared for, others which had caught him very much by surprise. His lying naked, beside the woman he had loved for so many years is very much the latter. Though he can trace his actions since the previous morning exactly, he is still not sure how it came about.

His mind flickers back, trying to make sense of it all.

After the phone call from Towers, Harry had been discretely escorted from Thames House by security personnel and driven home, to get some rest. He knew that his leaving MI5 headquarters was primarily for the benefit of those planning his demise, but he was too tired to care. His own future, with the Service, had faded from importance. The only thing on his mind was Ruth. He needed to see Ruth, to check that she was okay. They had not spoken since he had left, to meet 'Lucas North' on that fated rooftop. They had only glimpsed each other, across the crowded Grid, since. She had been driven home hours ago.

Desperate for some form of contact, he had called her from the MI5 pool car. She had not answered. He had called her again, from his home phone, still she had refused contact. Faintly worried, and very irritated by caller ID, Harry had thrown common sense aside and driven over to her house. Turning up at her front door, with a bottle of wine and a bottle of spirits (in preparation for all scales of grief) he had begged her through the door to let him in. She refused at first, told him to go away, but he had not budged.

He is glad of that now.

Standing on her doorstep, he told her that they needed to talk and they could either do it through the letter box, or she could let him inside. Eventually, she let him in.

There had been tears and rage. She had shouted and cried and said a lot of things that stung a lot more, because they came from her lips. But, in the end, the argument had worn itself out and they had settled into the welcome numbness that alcohol afforded them. Sitting at her kitchen table and drank the wine. After it was finished, they moved to the sofa and drank the brandy. Then, around two in the morning, she stopped trying to fight and let him take her in his arms, to stroke her back in comfort.

Even after her tears stopped, she had not moved away. They started really talking, reminiscing over old times; days when she had been young and naive and he had been naive (she smiled at that joke, the first time he had seen her smile in a long time). As four o' clock approached, the buzz from the alcohol began to wear off. They moved back through to the kitchen, shuffling around, in a vaguely domestic and very hung-over fashion, making tea.

And then Harry had done it. In a moment of weakness, asked if they could be friends – just friends, it did not need to be more than that. Standing in her kitchen, holding onto her sink for stability, he lied and told her that he could be just friends, if it meant still knowing her.

He regretted saying it the moment it left his lips.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

_She watches him, not speaking. Her pupils are massive, all but eclipsing the blue of her eyes. _

_His heart beats fast inside his chest._

"_We will always be more than just friends, Harry." Her voice is deep and steady. She lifts a hand, running her fingertips lightly down his jaw before pressing her palm into his chest. _

_Her skin is hot. Her hand remains there, despite the seconds passing. __The sustained contact surprises Harry. So often, when they touched, it was fleeting. Ruth would pull away almost immediately. This time, however, she does not. Very deliberately, with her hand still against his chest, she leans forwards and brushes her lips against his. __Her eyelids close as she kisses him._

_The kiss is barely a touch and, surprised by her sudden boldness, Harry does not react at first. Something clicks into place, however, as her warm breath warms his cheek and he catches himself in time to meet her second kiss. It too is brief, and passes before he can truly taste her. _

_Desperation hangs in the air after they part. He wonders if she feels as sick with want as he does._

"_See?" her fingers trace one last circle along his jaw and she draws back, watching him with a sad smile. "We're more than that. I feel it in you, you feel it in me. There's no point in lying. We could never be just friends."_

_This is killing him. _

"_Well, I think we've shown today that we can't be simply colleagues." His voice sounded calmer than he felt. "So, if we can't be colleagues or friends, what is left for us?" He leans close, trying to coax her back towards him but Ruth resists – suddenly as distant. _

_The inches between them might as well be a thousand miles. That wall is back up, that insurmountable barrier of lies and truths that neither of them can quite clamber over. Her boldness she showed, in kissing him, has all but vanished. She is about to draw away._

"_Give me another chance, Ruth." He leans in again. "Please." One last plea._

"_Harry, don't..." _

_He is so tired of accepting 'Harry, don't' as her final word. He is tired of backing away and glossing the subject over. In an instant – a glorious and terrifying instant – he decides that tonight he will lay down an ultimatum. They leave with each other, or leave each other for good. She is right, they cannot just be friends. It is killing them slowly. They cannot be colleagues either. No, he has thrown that away for the two of them. So it is love or nothing. And it is her choice, he made his long ago. He thinks Ruth might have had him at 'bugger the Home Office'. _

"_Why not?" he asks her, throwing caution to the winds._

"_There are ten thousand reasons." _

"_Name them."_

"_I don't want to argue anymore..." _

_She tries to walk away, but he stops her, encircling her wrist with his hand. _

"_Ruth, this isn't fair."_

"_It's never fair!" she whirls around, freeing her wrist from his grip, a little violently. Anger has kindled in her eyes, despite her obvious weariness. "It's not fair that we gave everything and the job gives nothing back. It's not fair that good men die and bad men live. It's not fair that we cannot stop them all, or that we have to make choices, between those we love and the country who doesn't give a damn about us!"_

_It is not an eloquent speech, but as emotional as any Harry has heard from her._

"_Is it the service that's the problem, or me?" he asks. "Because I can fix one of them." _

"_Harry..."_

"_I'm not going to crawl back, Ruth, not this time. After today, the Service wants me out and I'm happy to oblige."_

_She stares for ten seconds or so before inhaling sharply and turning away. She returns to her tea, stirring it distractedly._

"_Ruth?"_

"_I can't choose bits of you to love, Harry, that's not how it works." _

_He does not even pretend that the word 'love' does not fill him with delight. _

"_I am _not_ the job." He tells her softly. _

"_But the job made you." She pauses. "It made me too."_

_And, therein, lay the rub. _

"_And you're afraid, if we leave, that we won't be us... and I won't love you?" He asks it slowly, frown deepening with each word. Then realisation, that the thing had been keeping them apart for so many years was something so simple, hits him like a thermobaric bomb. He is torn between laughing and crying. Instead he just whispers her name. "Oh, Ruth..."_

_She does not seem to have noticed his revelation. She is still focussed on her mug of tea, stirring it in increasingly frantic circles. Her eyes are lowered. Her fingers grip the handle so hard that her knuckles have turned white. After a moment or two of standing in silence, Harry takes matters into his own hands. He reaches over, stilling her spoon, and takes the mug from her hand. Setting it down on the counter, he moves to stand back beside her. _

"_I know you, Ruth." He leans in. "And you know me. That is why we love each other, not circumstance. If it wasn't, it would have faded, years ago."_

"_I don't really know you, though, do I?" She looks up at him, her smiles a little too tight, eyes a little wild. "I know Sir Harry Pearce, the Head of Section D, the spook. I don't know the real you. I can count the times I have seen you, outside work, on both hands." _

"_You know me." He tells her, as calmly as he can manage. "You said it before, Ruth, the job made us. So, what I am there, I am here too – the good and the bad."_

_Her eyes are over-bright. She closes them, breathing in sharply. _

_He takes two steps forwards, narrowing the gap between them, whispering against her cheek. _

"_You know who I am, just like I know who you are." He brushed her arm with his hand, hoping against hope that she will not draw away. "You are good and true and honest. You bind our team and keep me grounded. You are stronger than either of us ever imagined. You died for me, Ruth."_

"_Not really." It is a half-hearted attempt at self-deprecation, in the face of his praise._

_Harry ignores it._

"_You are brilliant and beautiful and so full of anger." He felt a stab of pain, for his part in that. "So much anger; you're angry at me, at the team, at the service, at yourself. You have seen too much. You are overworked and underpaid. You are damaged, Ruth, but you certainly are not broken. You deserve a life, and a home. You deserve more than me, but that's all I have to offer."_

"_Please, don't..."_

_He pushes himself to continue. He is far past the point of turning back, anyway. Dignity has left the arena long ago. He is begging her to give him a chance. She is begging him to go away. Both of them are so far beyond their comfort zones that they are in international waters and, to continue the metaphor, drowning fast. _

"_You have every right to be afraid," he whispers against her skin. "Love is not easy, or safe. You have to make sure the risk is worth it." His hand slides up to grip hers, on the counter top. "But don't say we do not know each other, Ruth. You know me better than anyone in this world."_

_She bites her lip and then releases it, leaning into him as if to kiss him again. He averts his mouth. She's trying to avoid the subject and he won't let her. With a sigh of frustration, she leans her head in anyway, resting her cheek against his. Her hands wind up his sides and they stand, cradled in an almost dance-hold, in the corner of her kitchen. She is still in her shoes, he's not. The change in height difference means that her hair tickles his nose. She smells of shampoo and citrus perfume._

_They stand for thirty seconds in silence. She sways. _

"_You know who I am." He repeats softly. _

"_...You're Harry," she whispers, against his cheek._

"_I will be Harry when I leave." He brushed a lock of hair back against her neck with one hand. "Give me another chance, Ruth."_

_She closes her eyes hard, blocking him out. Her body is tense, underneath his fingertips. She is about to either run away or give in. Harry knows this moment so well that it's painful. Every time they have been here before, she has left him standing alone. He knows he has about thirty seconds and then she might walk away from him forever. Wracking his brain, he cannot think of anything more to make her to stay. So, he just presses one hand against her back, making it a little harder for her to escape. Prolonging his agony. _

"_What about the guilt and the lies and the secrets?" she asks, quietly, drawing her head back from his so that she can meet his eye. His cheek is left wet with her tears. Her eyes flicker between his. There is a hint of challenge in them. "How deep does it all go?"_

"_Deeper than it should." He admits. Anything less would have been an insult to her intelligence. _

_Ruth's jaw tightens. She does not speak. _

"_There will always be things I can't explain to you," Harry continues. He knows these words might spell their end, but he has to tell her. This clinch, against a kitchen cupboard, might be their last chance at salvaging themselves. "But you have seen the worst of me and you still let me in that door, tonight. Surely, that means something?" _

_A tear falls. Her expression does not change. _

_This is the breaking point. He is sure of it. Everything is about to crash into nothingness. She will fall away from him again. _

"_I love you." He whispers, somewhat urgently. He won't let her leave without hearing it – not this time. As the words leave his lips, she twitches, about to turn, but he presses his hand flatter against her back. "I love you." He says again._

_He leans forwards, looking to her eyes for permission before kissing her lips gently. She tastes of salt and Ruth and he does not want to pull away but he forces himself to. They part after just a second and Harry cannot help but think that, fleeting though they have been, they have kissed more times tonight than in the whole of their ten years together.__This is the first time he had initiated contact. He has always been too scared that she would reject him. Tonight, however, it does not matter. They will leave this together or apart. There will be no shady grey area. They will not be colleagues, who will always mean a lot to one another. He is done with excuses and she has none left._

"_Are you going to run away now?" he asks her. _

_Torturously__ slowly, Ruth shakes her head. _

"_Are you going to give me another chance?" _

_She says nothing for almost half a minute. The silence stretches on as if it were hours. His throat is tight with anticipation, his body straining under the pressure of the moment. He needs this answer – either way, he needs to know. Eventually, after a torturous wait, her lips part and she speaks._

"_I want a home." Her eyes are shining brightly. Half of the shine is from un-fallen tears, the rest is raw emotion. He has never seen her so exposed – so vulnerable and yet so strong. She continues slowly, precisely. "I don't want to end up like the others. I don't want the only thing I leave in this world to be my name, etched on that horrible wall at Thames House." she wiped away an errant tear, "And Harry, I never want to visit your name there." _

"_My name will never be engraved in Thames House." He assures her. "Not after today, I assure you."_

"_They've not thrown you out yet." She mutters._

"_They will." Harry replies, slowly and calmly. "And I neither blame them nor want to object."_

_They stand in silence for a minute._

"_I feel I'm asking too much..." her voice is barely a whisper. "It's not fair to say I will only be with you once you leave your job. It's tantamount to blackmail."_

"_Not as I'm already leaving," he smiles, gently, taking her chin in his hand and turning her face towards him. "Ruth, you have never asked a thing of me before – not a thing – and I have asked so much of you. To be honest, I wish I could do more than let them kick me out. I wish I could bring back all those names you loved, from off that wall, but I can't. The only name I can give you is mine. I cannot vouch that I'll still have the 'Sir' by tomorrow morning, but if plain Harry Pearce is good enough for you, then I'm yours. Unreservedly." _

_She surprises him, her tears breaking to show a tiny smile. _

"_I think plain Harry is good enough." She sniffs, a little wetly._

"_Then I'm yours."_

_The tears holding in her eyes fall en-masse and she crumples forward, into his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around him. He reciprocates, gladly, drawing her smaller body near to him. After thirty seconds, she manages to regain enough composure to whisper conspiratorially against his neck;_

"_I think I was always yours." _

_His body sings with pleasure._

_._


	3. Chapter 3

_._

Her cheeks grow slightly red as his gaze wanders over her. Despite having stripped them both so readily, not half an hour ago, she is almost bashful as they lie together now. The blanket she pulled down from the couch covers most of her body, but her shoulders, neck and the swell of her chest are still on show. Half a rose-coloured nipple is visible, in the shadow of a fold. She is exquisite. He is not entirely sure he trusts himself not to tell her, so he keeps his mouth shut.

"It's cold," she shivers, very slightly, and he reaches out one arm to bring her closer.

His touch still makes her quiver – he hopes, from pleasure as well as nerves. As he pulls her in, she slips her legs, a little shyly, around his. Laced together, they lie watching each other, bodies touching along their length. Her naked chest presses against his, their bellies graze as they breathe. It is wonderfully close. As they cling together, her shivering begins to die down. His body provides ample heat for two.

After a minute or so, she sighs and leans forward, pressing her face into his chest.

"All hell is going to break loose, tomorrow, isn't it?" she asks. He can feel her lips move against his skin. "They're going to throw you to the wolves."

"Yes." He answers quietly. He does not want to lie to her – ever again, if he can help it.

A pause, then she sighs.

"I'm not going back."

"Ruth," He exhales heavily. It's exactly what he wanted her not to do. "You can't just throw it all away. You should stay, fight it out, they can only say so much."

"They can say a lot, Harry, and besides, I have nothing to throw away." She pulls her face back from his chest and tilts it up to meet his gaze. "All my friends there are gone. I might have no medals or titles, but I can walk away from the past eight years with experience and, thank God, no terminal bullet wounds. I happen to think I'm lucky, compared with what happened to some of our colleagues. Anyway," she continued, a little breathlessly, "I knew the deal when I joined the service. Good spooks go in and the service chews them up and spits them out. I didn't expect any more."

"You deserve more," he tells her, quietly.

"We all do, but that's not the way it works. I can live with that."

"Ruth..."

"No." She shakes her head, firmly. "There are few people I would make the stand for, Harry – and before you say you don't want me to, please hear me out. I stand by my principles and I think the choice you made, with Albany, was the right one. And that is not because I'm biased" she added. "It's because I know that, if it had been Dimitri or Tariq that Lucas had taken, you would have done exactly the same. You would have still made the trade. Besides, MI5 is not the be-all and end-all for a technical analyst. I have other skills and plenty of experience to offer. I have options, Harry." Her eyes flicker a little mischievously, just for a second. "Contrary to popular belief, I am neither your 'yes girl' nor a one-trick pony."

"Come now, Ruth, nobody ever said you were a one-trick pony." He murmurs, trying not to sound too touched. Her sentiment is genuine and he's very close to blushing as it is.

"Who says I am your 'yes girl'?" she asks, with a soft frown.

Harry clears his throat. Nobody has ever said it to his face, of course, but he overheard a rather good joke about it once, at the water cooler. He is not entirely sure he can repeat it in front of her, not without turning scarlet.

"Nobody." He answers, diplomatically.

She raises an eyebrow, causing her forehead to line lightly. Harry stifles a sigh. He can remember when her face was unmarked by lines and scars. So many things had changed, over the years they had known one another, not least themselves.

Reaching across, he traces a small cut on her lip – a mark of her ordeal, at John Bateman's hand. He follows the line of her lip down to her chin, along her jaw, up to her cheekbone. It is a little sharper now, the skin that covered it a little more drawn. He follows the crest of her cheek across to her nose, along her eyebrow, and then lays his palm against the side of her face. She presses into it, watching him with thinly-veiled adoration.

It is wonderful, to be loved by something so beautiful. It is so far beyond what he deserves.

His mind flickers back to the past, as he studies her eyes. She came to him from a desk at GCHQ, sent to spy on him, like a lamb sent amongst lions. Hiding behind her ditsy exterior, however, was been the heart of a born spook.

He watches her lick her lips, remembering how she looked with her face less lined. Her cheeks had been fuller, then. She wore a little more makeup, painted a pink on those lips and dressed a little too flamboyantly. These differences between her then-self and now-self are trivial, of course. The depth in her eyes means a thousand times more. They used to be so light and full of hope – naive hope, whether she would ever admit it or not. They sparkled so often, back then.

Harry ran both his hands up the back of her neck, into the edge of her hairline. He can make them spark now, if only for a moment.

Coaxing her back into his hands, he rubs small circles against the base of her skull. It is a secret talent of his and the result is almost instantaneous. Ruth tilts her head back against his fingertips, eyes sliding closed. He is a little surprised by her willingness to let go. He had expected her to shy away, or at least to hide her emotion, as she so often did. But something in the air is different, tonight. They have changed it. She groans contentedly, as his fingers slip beyond her hairline.

"What will you do?" he asks, trying to imagine Ruth working anywhere but at his side. It feels strange and peculiar.

"I don't know," she sighs, eyes still closed. "I suppose I could go back to GCHQ, or ask to transfer to another section."

"Bugger GCHQ, apply for my job."

She opens one eye, presumably to check if he is serious. After she has ascertained that he is, she gives a little snort of amusement.

"I can see why they're firing you, Harry, you have completely lost it."

He resists the urge to laugh with her.

"I'm deadly serious. You have more experience of running my department than anyone else – more hours logged on the Grid, more hours in communications and in liaising with the Home Office."

"Harry..." she sounds reproachful.

"And, if you're worried about the baying of the wolves, nobody snaps at the head of Section D, not without repercussions. You would have Towers' backing, no doubt," he continued, "and they can hardly say that you had any real part in the Albany fiasco, not after the report I've just written-."

"Harry, stop it. You've not even been fired, yet, and I am completely unqualified!"

"You are more than qualified. When I accepted the position I was five years younger and ten years more foolish."

"Which says nothing more than I'm old and you were a moron."

Harry frowns. He isn't sure if she has cultivated this disregard for his authority over the past few minutes, or if she has just hidden it really well in the past.

"No need to be rude..."

"I'm not applying for your bloody job, Harry. Besides," she gave a little shiver. "The gossip would be intolerable."

He pulls her head closer, pressing her body flat against his. She tightens her grip on his leg with her own, helping to push her face into his chest. The closeness seems to be what she needs, to calm her. Her heart rate slows a little. The muscles in her back and legs loosen, body relaxing. He continues to massage the back of her neck, feeling her exhale heavily into his skin.

"Harry, you don't need to worry about me, I'm quite happy to move to another Sector. I don't think it will be that hard, people have tried to poach me in the past. Remember Jools Siviter?" she asked.

Harry felt a flash of dislike.

"He called me, two months after I came back from Cyprus and told me there was always a position in Six, if I wanted it."

"You are _not_ going to work for Jools Siviter." Harry growled, threateningly.

"I thought you might say that." She smiled into his skin, angling her neck so that he could better access to its slender sides. "I decided not call him back, in the end. I had the distinct feeling he had ulterior motives."

"Odd that, he was always such a candid chap."

Ruth chuckled.

"I'm good at what I do, Harry, I'll find a home. Besides," he could feel her smile stretch slightly. "I'm expecting a jolly good reference, after all this."

His fingers faltered in their slow massaging of her neck.

"I hope you are having the decency to blush for that last comment."

A nervous laugh told him she probably was.

.


	4. Chapter 4

_._

_They stand in a silent limbo, a waking dream that neither entirely wants to shatter. The fragility of their new contract hangs in the air between them. Harry holds onto her carefully, not wanting to disturb her lest she change her mind and leave him again. She won't, he knows she won't – not now – but he is still afraid of it. Now he has her, body pressed hot in to his chest, he cannot imagine not having her ever again. _

_He is exhausted. What a night it has been. They have argued and insulted one another, they have spoken candidly, become reasonably drunk, sobered up, hugged, kissed, argued again, and he had told her that he loved her; it really was rather a lot for them. Usually, they barely made it past 'good morning' before one of them got cold feet. It really did say a lot for the healing powers of alcohol. _

_They have been standing next to the sink for nearly five minutes and Ruth's cheek, wet from her tears, is beginning to get cold. Harry extricates one arm from their embrace to warm her skin. Her lips curl into a smile and she leans into his touch, with a soft hum. The contact is more than warming for him, it's almost electric. He mutters something about them needing to move away from the kitchen window and her catching her death but she dismisses it with another hum. Her eyes remain closed. _

_They stand for another minute or so, before she speaks._

"_So what's next?" her voice is nervous, but not apprehensive. _

_Harry is glad to hear that she is not changing her mind about giving him a second chance, but he has no more idea, of what to do next, than she does. Never before has any of his relationships been this complex. _

_His wife was simple, she wanted his time. Juliet and the other mistresses had been simple, they had wanted the sex or the power. The others had been simple too, in their own ways – money, comfort, a considerate ear or a good fuck. He had been a beautiful boy and a handsome young man. Women had always liked him and he had liked them in return. As he reached middle age and looks began to fade, he assumed his experience meant he knew women fairly well. He thought that he had made rather a good job of a reckless youth and that his time for chasing women was over. As it turned out, he was only half-right. _

_He has spent the last eight years chasing Ruth. Eight years – it sounds like an incredibly long time and feels like even longer. When he thinks about it, Harry wonders how he did not give up before now. After all, he had never had the staying power before. He married, fathered two children and divorced his wife in the half the time it has taken him to properly kiss Ruth Evershed. At least, Harry thinks, he does not have to worry about them having moved too fast._

_Still, he lingers a little distance from her side. He does not want to spook her, not now that they have finally reached this moment. _

_Her eyes are open, now, watching him. _

"_Whatever you want." He tells her, in answer to her question. "We move as slowly as you want to."_

_It is a little like approaching a wild creature. He takes care not to move to fast, or suddenly. She watches him, breathing softly, eyes dark with fear and a thousand other emotions that he cannot yet read. He is almost sure one of those emotions is lust. It mirrors the darkness lingering just beneath his surface. _

_...Surely, this is not too fast? _

_He needs to kiss her again, just one touch..._

_She lifts her chin as he leans down, her eyes hooked on his all the while. His heart hammers faster in his chest. Yes, it is definitely lust that glimmers in her eyes. Her pupils have dilated again, narrowing her irises to slivers of blue. He pauses, lips just short of hers, and her hands rise from his sides to lie against his chest. The moment shifts their tender embrace to something far more intense. Their breathing deepens, growing harsher. Her gaze is loaded with implication and he cannot help but think of the dozens of moments they have missed, through cowardice, and the millions more they have imagined, between them. _

_One hand reaches up, from his chest, to touch his face. _

"_I love you," she whispers. _

_Everything disappears into a haze of joy and adrenaline-fuelled desire. _

_He closes the gap between them in milliseconds, hand slipping around her neck to guide her closer. Her hands grip his jaw, fingers sliding across his skin as she rises to meet him. Their lips do not brush, this time. This embrace is harder and nowhere near fleeting. They press into each other hungrily, all caution lost. They capture each other over and over. Her hands wind around his neck, lips parting beneath hers. Eagerly, she fills the space, her tongue just grazing the tip of his own. Another kiss, then a gentler one across his lower lip... then the corner of his mouth... then back in again. _

_Eventually, they have to part, to catch their breath and Ruth lies her cheek alongside his. Her breathing is ragged. Harry becomes dimly aware that a few minutes have passed. Only, they do not feel like minutes. He feels like he has barely touched her, though he can see that is not the truth. T__hey have become thoroughly entangled. His arms surround her, pinning her close. Her hands grip the back of his shirt like there is no tomorrow. (In a way, he thinks there isn't. Not for their old selves, at least. Tomorrow, he will be fired and she is resigning. They are leaving. Together. Finally)._

_Her hair is wound around his fingers, her taste in his mouth. The tears she wept, in frustration and relief, are streaked against his skin. __What he would have, to have reached this day eight years ago..._

_His breathing begins to regulate, just as she leans closer into him and reignites the situation. Lifting his shirt until it frees from his trousers, she flattens her palms against his skin, fingertips pressing into him demandingly. _

"_Harry," _

_Her whisper catalyses the already tense atmosphere, bringing him back to the moment and his instantaneous needs._

_His hands take her waist and they stumble together, his weight carrying them back, against the fridge. It is a nice stable surface to ground them – and he needs grounding sorely. Ruth has one hand around his neck and one at his side, pulling him closer. Her fingernails scratch across the skin above his hip and their lips collide so forcefully he wonders whether they will end up damaging one another, with all this desire. They are riding high on it, pressed up against the fridge like some illicit teenage tryst. He laughs softly, at this thought. She does not notice. She is too busy tracing shaky circles across his skin._

_They kiss again. And again. The novelty is not wearing off, but the pressure is building between them. Their bodies are crying out for more. Her hand slides tantalisingly close to his waistband. Her thigh brushes against his groin. Whether or not her movements are intentional, they rouse heat from deep within him. Harry is suddenly very aware of their proximity; his heartbeat pulsing in the crook of his leg and elsewhere. She is centimetres away, heavy breaths warming the hollow of his neck and he wants to take far more than a kiss from her. _

_The realisation brings him abruptly back to reality. Exerting more self-control than he thought humanely possible, Harry slides his hands around hers and prises her gently away. _

_Ruth falters. _

"_Harry?"_

"_I don't know if this is, um..."_

"_It's the right time." She assures him, with a look that borders on incredulous. _

_He looks about them. _

"_And... here?"_

"_Right place." _

_He cannot help but give a half-laugh at that. They are crushed against each other in her kitchen. One of her fridge magnets is dug into his lower back and she is pressed against his semi-erect body, through the confines of his trousers. He is dangerously close to losing control, here. She probably has no idea._

_At his laugh, she nudges closer, eliciting a soft, mostly-swallowed moan from his lips. __Okay, Harry corrects himself. Perhaps she does have some idea. She is never as naive as he expects, after all, why should sex be any different?_

_She shifts her weight onto the leg that lies in between his, pushing her thigh further into him. He swallows, a little too audibly. _

"_Ruth..."_

"_I do have a bedroom, you know." Her hand slides up along his neck, into his hair. She winds her fingers into the short strands._

"_We both have people watching us," Harry nods to the windows. They shut the curtains long ago, but the MI5 minders will still be outside. "If they see the lights going on upstairs there will be talk." His career is over, but there is still Ruth's to think about. So, he holds his distance, despite the growing impatience in her eyes. "I don't want this to follow you back to Thames House." He explains, trying to sound calm._

_Ruth gives a wry smile._

"_Come on, Harry, they will have started talking the moment I let you in that front door. Besides," a brilliant red creeps across her cheeks, but she holds his gaze steadily. "Everybody thinks we're doing it anyway. We might as well get some fun out of it."_

_His heart seems to miss a beat. _

_She is teasing. Inches away and she is teasing him, her voice half darkness, half honey. Her eyes hold darkness too; lust and desire, a desperate longing to finish what they had started, all those years ago. He remembers the first time they brushed against each other and meant it. They were on a bus, at night. They had barely even looked at one another. Now she is staring directly into his eyes, asking him to take her to bed. It is nearly five years on, but he feels no surer of himself. _

_He stands completely still. The last thing he wants to do is to move too fast, to screw things up. _

"_If it makes you feel better, Harry," she adds, in a voice that was barely a whisper, "I assure you I can manage with the lights off."_

_His will power breaks. _

_They fall clumsily into one another again. __Hands searching, desperately learning each other's bodies, they stagger backwards, into the kitchen table. Her body bucks against his. They fight for direction and access to more skin. Her hands are pulling free his shirt all around his waist, now. She rips a button free as she tugs at the front. He does not particularly mind. As tongues trace tongues and teeth and lips, the world shrinks rapidly around them. Harry kisses her as he has not kissed a woman since he was nineteen years old, when everything was new and desperately intense. They fall against the table. They grind against each other, eagerly stripping back layers of clothing to find skin._

_Somehow, they manage to make it through to her sitting room, Harry thanking god that her flat is open-plan. (They can barely manage doorways, let alone door handles). They pause at the couch, so that she can prise free her shoes, but end up falling onto it. It is a soft refuge and they sink in, sprawled a little uncomfortably on top of one another. They mean to leave it and head upstairs, but distraction strikes as she removes her jumper. She had been dressed for bed when he arrived, bearing wine and, underneath her thick woollen jumper, she is wearing only a fitted vest. The evening is cold and her nipples are hard. He investigates them through the fabric, much to her embarrassment and delight. _

_They do, eventually, get off the couch, but only to lay themselves down across the hearth. There are several thick rugs and throws there, and a couple of books which Ruth tosses to one side as they descend. Clearly, she spends much of her free time curled up here. Surrounded by the scent of her seems a perfect place for them to be. She flicks on the fire as he pulls free his shirt. Fake flames burst into life and he muses that it is a fantastic bit of forward-planning, turning it on before they get naked and cold. He is actually surprised for a second, before he remembers who he's with.__Of course she thinks of things like this, of course she plans, she's Ruth. _

_His Ruth. _

_He cannot help but grin like a fool, to realise that this is actually happening. And happening so fast._

_Her hands have already rid him of his belt and her skirt is pushed up to her hip. Wrapping his hand around her thigh, he can feel her muscles flex against him, causing his heart to thunder violently against his chest. She is so vibrant and alive. He cannot quite understand why something so exquisite would want something like him – old and broken as he is. He knows he does not deserve her, but is too far gone to restrain himself. Her flesh is hot and tempting. They struggle closer. _

_Finding a good hold on her, he pulls her hips close. They kiss, brushing slowly against one another. They pause only when one of them gets too out of breath to continue, which happens every few minutes or so. It would make more sense to limit the number of kisses they are placing, about each other's bodies, but sense does not come into this equation. Everything is heat and want. He has been living a celibate life for almost two years, now, and he is feeling the effects of it. His body is tight, dying to plunge into her while, at the same time, aware that he will not last nearly as long as he would like to. _

_He rolls over in submission to her advances, shoulders pressing down into the rugs and blankets behind them. Their roles are reversed, from who they are on the Grid. She is definitely in charge here and he is surprised by how readily she takes to it. Her mouth is devastatingly hot. Nudging him backwards, she peels off her vest, so that she is now clad only in the skirt bunched around her waist. The skin beneath the vest is palest ivory. _

_His fingers tighten on her thigh. _

"_Ruth..."_

_He is too old for this – Ruth's hardwood floor is barely padded, with a couple of throws and rugs, and his back will ache in the morning – but he continues, without thought to the future. He has done enough planning ahead, moving slowly and waiting to last a lifetime. _

_With shaking fingers, Harry's lover unbuckles his belt, pulling it free one belt-loop at a time. She lets him do the rest, fumbling with buttons and zippers as she presses kisses against his neck. They shrug off clothes until they are naked apart from her skirt, his underwear and, interestingly, a sock which managed to escape the stripping progress. She gives a giggle of nervous surprise as his cold fingers play across her, thumb brushing over a hardened rose nipple. Then they fall back into kissing again. _

_During their pause to undress, the tension between them lessened slightly. Their movements had been stayed by practical needs – getting each other as naked as possible. Now those needs are met, however, the tension grows exponentially. Her breath is suddenly uneven. His heartbeats are frighteningly fast. They hungrily scrape fingers across each other's bodies. He is surprised by the hardness of her bone, through the soft skin. He had always imagined her to be more fragile. As he slides his hands around her waist, guiding her to straddle him, the tension between them reaches a perilous crescendo._

_He shudders a little and murmurs her name again. _

_She just smiles and begins to move. _

_All naiveté and awkwardness aside, she knows exactly what to do with her body to make him squirm. His eyes close after about ten seconds, praying to a God he does not believe in for some reserve of strength. Hers must have remained open, because when he looks back up, she is watching him carefully. She blushes when he meets her gaze, but does not look away. He is not sure whether he should say something. He's quite enjoying their silence, punctuated occasionally by tremors and whimpers, but he really does want to be inside her sometime soon. He does not trust his sex-deprived body to last much longer, between her thighs._

_She drags herself feather-lightly across him. Everything flickers. Electricity threads through him, twitching his muscles, pre-climactic tension growing deep in his belly. _

"_Roll over." he barely manages the words without his voice cracking. _

_Her hips still. _

"_Is that an order?" _She lifts an eyebrow, looking slightly amused.__

"_More of a plea," he admits._

_She laughs, then, a rich sound that he has not heard properly in months. Her eyes flash warmly before she slides off of him and rolls over on her side, pulling herself free of her skirt as she goes. _

_The finesse with which she moves surprises him. He is more impressed and intimidated by the second. Every time he had imagined this, she had been more timid and he had been less faltering. The reality is better than the dream – infinitely so. In reality, her body is ten times as beautiful. There are so many little details he could never have imagined; the feel of her skin, flushed and wanting against his own, the taste of her lips and the almost-sweetness of her tongue. She is amazing. He is the surprise. _

_Harry has never been shy, especially not with women. But this is Ruth, for God's sake! This has to be right. At the back of his mind, he has some doubts as to whether this will live up to their imaginations – and he is sure they have both imagined this, it has been eight bloody years, after all. He is pretty sure the doubts are what are stopping him from pinning her to the throw rug and replacing that teasing little smile of hers with pants of ecstasy. _

_As he traces the valley between her breasts, she watches him, expression oddly serene. Harry knows that Ruth can smell withheld information a mile off. She probably knows, by now, what he wants to say, but he decides to say it anyway. _

"_This might..." he pauses and clears his throat. "I mean, I don't know if..." _

_She watches patiently. _

"_It's been a while." He finishes, lamely. His fingers have stilled in their gentle progress across her skin and he feels suddenly very exposed. He has to wait ten torturous seconds before he gets a reply but, when it comes, it is infinitely worth it. _

_She leans forwards, kissing his lips lightly. The bravado she had carried, just moments before, has vanished, and her eyes are soft again. He knows they are just different sides of Ruth and – if this works out, he will see many sides of her – but this is the side he is used to seeing and it comforts him. He meets her kiss, groaning as her hand winds its way up along his thigh, into the crook of his leg. _

"_Me too. Come on," another kiss and she draws away, rolling onto her back and looking up at him. _

_He follows her over and his lips find her cheek. Her hands find his neck and lace across the back of it, letting him arrange them, resting her forehead against him as he does. They guide themselves together with a little difficulty and a lot of patience. Her body is so warm, skin burning. As he sheaths himself completely inside of her, his breathing shallows considerably. Hers almost stops, then it catches and she pants his name softly. He barely manages not to come. _

_As they start to move, she surrenders control completely. Her hands tighten against his skin, but she does not pull, or push, just arches gently to meet him, eyelids fluttering almost-closed each time. They are graceful at first, quiet and gentle. After a minute or two, however, the game changes. She whispers his name against his cheek, something different in her voice. Her movements under him grow more demanding. She arches faster, hips moving up to meet his harder. He gladly reciprocates, taking his weight on his arms and giving her more room to work, beneath him. Her hands run down to graze his lower back, one across his buttocks, pressing into him, coaxing him faster. _

_For someone with terrible conversational timing, Harry has always been praised for his rhythm and it is his saving grace, tonight. He catches himself a few times, slowing them to an almost-stop, much to her disappointment – and even, once, a petulant groan. Rhythm is thrown out the window, however, as she slows them down to reposition. _

_Breathing now quite erratic, she does not try to explain to him what she wants, just guides him with her slender hands. She uncouples them and rolls over, placing her back against his chest. Entwining their fingers together, she draws him closer, locking them front-to-back. They are spooned, tightly. His chest presses against her shoulders. She squeezes his hand. It takes just a few seconds for them to slide back together, this time, and only one hand to grip her trembling hips. She is wet and he is more than a little forceful. _

_Before tonight, he did not have a favourite position. However, with one foot planted against the couch and her calf hooked around his, he discovers quite a weakness for this one. It is probably some instinctive, male thing about dominance. Her shoulders, strain against his chest. It feels good, almost too good. _

_She rolls almost onto her belly and he follows, pressing down into her. He closes his eyes, burying his face into the curve of her neck. Moving faster, things begin to blur. Everything is sensation and desperate, ball-tightening need. He buries his face into her neck, losing himself in his own pleasure for almost a minute before a series of particularly harsh pants bring him back to attentiveness. His lover's muscles are tight against him, back arched so that her shoulders pressed into his chest, hard. She falters on the edge, squirming, backing up, clamping and re-clamping her leg against his. And then – silent apart from a soft, guttural moan – she breaks. _

_It is easily the most beautiful thing he has seen her do, because it is so honest. The expression in her face is not veiled, or hiding any double-meaning. There is no doubt in her eyes, just distant euphoria. Her back curves, in a beautiful crescent, away from him. Her hips spasm once. Twice. Five times. _

_Her skin is hot. He is burning inside of her. His body is tight. _

_The reflex to thrust into her is instinctive. So, foot planted against the couch for leverage, he does just that. He catches her as she falls into aftershocks, causing her to pant and arch away again, euphoria rekindled. Her fingernails rake skin from his forearm, but he does not care. Pain and pleasure are completely blurred now. Tension is growing throughout him, tingling along the length of him, deep in his belly and balls. His heart rate is soaring. He can hear it in his ears. _

_Thud-thud-thud. _

_Her mouth opens and closes, in a soundless whimper, against his arm. Wet. Fuck. _

_And that is it. He is gone_

_...Everything is gone. _

_Only she remains._

_._


	5. Chapter 5

_._

The room is silent apart from the crackling of the electric fire. Outside, the occasional car passes, now. It is almost six o' clock in the morning and London wakes early, even in the dark depths of winter. Inside Ruth's sitting room, the pair are still lying belly-to-belly, on top of the throw rugs and blankets. Ruth sighs contently. Harry feels equally satisfied. His shoulder aches a little, under their combined pressure, but he cannot quite bring himself to move. He fears she might suggest getting dressed, or something horrifically sensible like that.

She does not seem too concerned with getting up, at the moment, however. She seems far more interested in tracing the scars across his shoulders and chest. Running her fingers down his collar bone, she hovers over a thin white scar above his left nipple. Her forehead furrows gently, in a frown. Harry wonders whether he can ask what she was thinking about, without sounding as if he is mooning over her – which, of course, he is.

"You are thinking very loudly, Ruth." He eventually settles on. His voice is lower than usual, gravelly from the silence between them.

"Hm?" At his voice, she startles a little and looks up at him. Harry sees her familiar worried expression appear and then vanish, almost instantly, as she remembers where she is and what she is being admonished for. "Sorry," she recovers from her surprise, giving him a timid smile. "I was just thinking that we don't do half badly, considering we are two broken old spooks."

"Glad to see I'm not always a negative surprise." He told her, trying to cover his delight with sarcasm.

"I also just realised..." her little smile widened and her eyes grew a little more mischievous. "You are 'Sir' Harry Pearce."

"I am..." he frowned.

"So, I just shagged a knight of the realm."

He chuckles. Ruth is playful after sex; yet another thing he has learned about her, today. He gathers it up and stores it away. He will evaluate what it means some other time, when there is not such pleasant company to occupy him.

Digging her hands into his back, she wriggles around, getting comfortable. She is looking delightfully ruffled. Her hair is tangled and her lips are a red and bee-stung from their onslaught of kissing, earlier. She is beautiful. If he had been fifteen years younger, Harry knows he would have been back on top of her by now. As it is, he is far too exhausted. Round two, if there was to be one, would have to wait until morning. Ruth nudges deeper into his chest. She seems as exhausted as he is – something he is not surprised by, after all she has been through, today. Her eyelids were heavy. The shifting and repositioning, he realised, were more to do with where they were lying, on the hard floor.

"I hear you have a bedroom," he offers, conversationally.

She looks up, her lips twitching into a half-smile.

"I do."

"I'm far too old to sleep on floors, even beside beautiful women."

She looks away, going slightly red again.

"You're not that old…"

"I am. And you blush too much." He murmurs, running his thumb along her exposed shoulder. "You will have to get used to being told you are beautiful."

Skin flushing even more vibrantly, Ruth tries to look nonchalant.

"Bedroom is upstairs, second door on the right." She informs him. Then, gathering the blanket to her, she pulls herself to her feet.

"Ruth!"

With the blanket gone, he is left naked on front of the fire. The room is freezing cold. Harry shivers, narrowing his eyes up at his blanket-clad lover, who tries and fails to smother a smile.

"Go on, I'll meet you up there. I just need to feed the cat."

Harry glances over at the couch, where she is pointing and spots the cat, nestled between two cushions. Less than ten feet away, it has clearly been unperturbed by their lovemaking. He wonders whether he should feel odd, that it was watching, and then decides he has much bigger problems to worry about.

With a sigh and a groan, he stands and pulls a throw rug off the floor to wrap around him. As Ruth pads off to the kitchen, he shuffles over to the stairs and flicks on the hall light. Anyone watching outside will know where they are going, but he does not care anymore.

He climbs the stairs slowly, scanning the photographs hanging on the wall as he goes. They are amateur, but nonetheless beautiful. He recognises the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur in one, lit up in the half-light of dusk. The rest are of ambiguous subject matter; a city skyline he suspects is Manhattan, two children playing in a European street, a wire-railing bridge, a gondola. Venice, perhaps. Harry continues up the stairs, pausing to view a particularly artistic shot of a dark lagoon. It is beautiful, in a less obvious way than the previous snapshots. Its leafy verges hide the ripples that spread across its surface, up until they reached the centre. There, they dance in a faint light. It must have been taken at dusk. Harry can see the reflection of the moon, in the water.

Noises from the kitchen tell him Ruth is almost finished, so he continues up the stairs.

He wonders if the photographs were taken by her. Most of her life, between when she left MI5 and returned, had been lost when she ran from Cyprus. She had returned to Britain with a single rucksack, a passport and a few other essentials. He supposes it is not that odd, that she might chosen to include a few mementos in amongst them. He just had not expected it. Ruth talked so little about her other life. He resolves to ask her about the pictures, sometime, and then promptly forgets as he reaches her bedroom.

Light filters in from the hall, illuminating a room which is not exactly as he had imagined it, but still recognisably Ruth's. It is relatively plain. The walls painted in earth tones and the furniture muted. The sheets on the bed are plush and embroidered, however, a splash of luxury in Spartan surroundings. The floor is carpeted and completely clear, except for a bundle of socks lying, unsorted beside her desk. Her desktop is clear, but a few bottles of perfume and skin crèmes sit on the dresser. He knows she does not wear much makeup, so he is not surprised to find little lying around. He is, however, surprised by the lack of books. That is, until he turns and sees the opposite wall is stacked, floor to ceiling, with them. He smiles a little, to himself. So Ruth.

A phone and an ancient alarm clock sit on her bedside table, beside three books. One of the titles he recognises, but the other two are in French. He walks over and thumbs through one, running a finger over the silk bookmark as he listens to Ruth, pottering about downstairs. She is talking to the cat. The whole situation feels so surreally domestic.

Harry puts the book back down and pulls the duvet back, climbing in with a sigh of relief. The mattress is soft and the sheets are every bit as plush as he had imagined. He keeps his eyes open, because he knows if he shuts them he will be unconscious instantly. A few moments pass, then he hears footsteps on the stairs. Ruth appears in the doorway, looked markedly more groomed than she had when she left him, downstairs. Her hair is brushed and she has washed the mascara streaks from under her eyes.

He cannot help but smile a little.

"Coming in?"

She falters, then steps quickly over and slides into the bed, depositing the blanket over the side. The mattress is big enough that they can lie without touching, but her foot finds his – cold amongst the sheets – and she does not pull away. They shiver and, with what sounds like an emboldening breath, Ruth shuffles closer. He lays one arm out and she gratefully slides over it, curling up against the side of his chest. Together, they heat up faster, until underneath the duvet is a warm cocoon. He feels wonderfully safe.

"Harry?"

"Mm?"

"Just so I don't have to call you on the Grid, tomorrow morning, I'm not sure I will be in to work on time."

He chuckles. His eyes are slipping irreversibly closed. Beside him, her body tells him she is shattered also. Her limbs are growing limp, her breathing slower. They are trying so hard to hang on, grasping at their last conscious moments together, but exhaustion is stronger than either of them.

"Ruth, go to sleep."

She opened one eye, sheets rustling as she turned her cheek across them.

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

"If you wake before nine." He yawned. "I have a meeting with Towers."

Her hand slides across and she traces a lazy circle against his belly. It is a comforting motion. She knows, as well as he does, what the meeting tomorrow will be about. The touch is also an unspoken thank-you. Whether or not Harry would have traded Albany for any of the other members of his team, he had not. He had traded it for Ruth and – beneath her self-deprecation and general Britishness – she was very grateful.

Her fingers come to rest against his navel and she lets one finger dangle lazily in.

"Need an alarm?"

"No. Phone." He answers, gesturing to his mobile on her bedside table. He had grabbed it from the floor in the living room, before coming upstairs.

They lie contentedly for another half-minute, or so, before Harry breaks the silence. Her breathing is threatening to lull him off to sleep and he want to say something before they both doze off. He clears his throat, a little nervously.

"I'm very glad you let me in, you know. This would not have been nearly as enjoyable from your doorstep."

Her hand slides around him, pulling herself flush against his side. Cheek resting against his chest, he can feel her smile.

"Me too."

The light from the hall is faint, the bed is so comfortable and the woman sleeping beside him is so beautifully warm. Harry could happily spend the rest of his life wrapped up, asleep, with Ruth. Waking for the meeting with the Home Secretary, in the morning, is looking less attractive by the second. In fact, he has half a mind to call him up, instead, and resign over the phone – beat them to it, so to speak. He will go to the meeting, however. He has too much respect for Towers to do otherwise. After all, it is bad form not to allow a man to do his job.

Harry shifts lazily, allowing Ruth's head to rest at a more comfortable angle. She looks so comfortable, with her eyes closed, resting upon him. Her dark lashes brush against her cheek, curled up right at the tips. He resists the urge to brush a stray lock of hair away from her forehead. He might disturb her.

"Stop watching me." She murmurs, eyes still closed.

"Right."

He is glad it is dark and she is not watching, because he blushes a little.

_Sentimental old fool._

The moment passes and the room is filled, once more, with her slow, steady breathing. Harry closes his eyes, letting his mind wander back across the events of the last few days – all the horrible and wonderful things that had happened, in such quick succession. He had been betrayed and beaten, broken then healed, all in less than a week. Now, the thing he had craved most in the world was curled up beside him and, as of tomorrow morning, he would no longer be tied to a job he was becoming increasingly disengaged with.

Thoughts of his impending freedom sent thrills of excitement through him. Perhaps he and Ruth would see the world, after all. Perhaps they would visit all the places he had resigned himself to only ever dreaming about. Maybe they would walk in museums and streets and drink wine in cafes, in the early afternoon. Maybe the world had a little room in it, for two broken old spooks to find a little sanctuary. Maybe they did deserve it, after all.

Her hand seeks his, through the darkness, giving him a gentle squeeze.

"You're thinking too loudly. Go to sleep, Harry."

With one last squeeze of her hand, just to confirm that he is not already dreaming, he does.

.


End file.
